


That Doesn't Wipe the Tears or the Years Away

by Valhalla (Red_Temper)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arguing, Aristocracy, English Enjolras, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras has a kid, French Grantaire, Kissing, M/M, Making Up, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 06:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5774857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Temper/pseuds/Valhalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is that him?" Dorian whispered in his ear.</p><p>Enjolras shook his head. When he had last locked eyes on R, the years apart had seemed to have left him very much the same as he had ever been and yet, he had been so very different.</p><p>He hadn't looked the same as he had at 20; his eyes were warier, the intelligence in them felt more keenly, no longer hidden; his slim frame accented by better tailoring; he hadn't touched drink at all that night; he smiled more freely. He danced just as gracefully.</p><p>It had been 12 years, at that point, since Enjolras had been permitted to dance with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Doesn't Wipe the Tears or the Years Away

Enjolras had never enjoyed these sorts of parties, as a bachelor they had been tiresome and ostentatious demonstrations of all the things he railed against in private company and as a widower they were insufferably worse, but Dorian had insisted. Of all Enjolras' traits to inherit, his stubbornness had developed quite tenaciously in the lad. If it were any other thing Dorian had set his mind to, Enjolras would've considered it a blessing rather than a curse. As it was, eventually he had given in; if only so he enjoy his breakfast in peace – without eyes just like his own staring him down across the table.

The ladies to their right giggled and whispered, tittering behind their fans; their lace dresses swishing across the floor. He didn't need to hear to know the subject of their avid discussion.

Dorian's hair was combed and bound at his neck, his blonde colouring less pure than his father's but with the light wave his mother had shared, rather than his father's well-recognised curls. Nineteen; the age Enjolras was when he had written the letters to the person – the returning letters signed only with a calligraphic R, to Dorian's dismay – that had led them to this particular gathering. Though, perhaps there was a second half to his son's conspiracy against him; to fend off his own matchmaking mothers by throwing Enjolras at them.

The first, and main, reason certainly benefitted the second though, since Enjolras had spent at least the entire afternoon attempting to get ready; to his incredible annoyance.  5 years since they had set eyes on each other, 3 years since his wife passed, and 17 since Enjolras had lost him; unaware that his own heart would be forfeit in return. He wanted to look good; it wasn't he who was the most eligible bachelor on both sides of the channel, not anymore.

"Is that him?" Dorian whispered in his ear, tall as his grandfather - though much more amiably tempered.

Enjolras shook his head. When he had last locked eyes on R, the years apart had seemed to have left him very much the same as he had ever been and yet, he had been so very different.

He hadn't looked the same as he had at 17 or even 20; his eyes were warier, the intelligence in them felt more keenly, no longer hidden; his slim frame accented by better tailoring; he hadn't touched drink at all that night; he smiled more freely. He danced just as gracefully.

It had been 12 years, at that point, since Enjolras had been permitted to dance with him.

Dorian looked more and more miffed as he subtly pointed, nodded, and suggested at people, with every one of his guesses being shot down. "Well, it's not like you kept a sketch alongside all those letters," he groused, as Enjolras shook his head yet again. They had made a full turn of the room together, without waylay for the most part. That was the thing about widowers; they had an excuse to be left alone.

"I almost burned those letters seven times," Enjolras remarked absently, hearing a familiar laugh, among a familiar raucous, from the upper level. The spider web crack from years ago splintered a tiny bit more in his chest. He hadn't known they would all be here.

Dorian visibly softened at the expression that crossed his father's face, and turned towards the stairs, having heard the merriment as well and already dismissed the ground floor as a lost cause.

"Maybe we'll spot him better from up there," Dorian suggested with a guiding hand on his father's shoulder. Enjolras swallowed and couldn't find the words to protest, but it was hell just walking forward.

God, why did he think he could do this?

“I think he'll be really happy to see you, you don't write letters like to someone you're going to forget."

Enjolras stopped. Dorian didn't know, he only knew what he had found in the letters and the very small amount Enjolras could bring himself to share; Dorian didn't know how wrong it went.

But the crush of people was abating as they got closer to the grand staircase and with Dorian tugging at his arm, there was little else to do but keep going. Only, Enjolras closed his eyes and heard that familiar laugh once again, and felt panic slowly tightening its grip on his airways. What if they got to the top to find some else there, or worse; finding R, successful in having rid himself of Enjolras' memory, despite what Dorian believed.

The blonde found himself ducking out of his son's grip and slipping behind the tall plant pillar to the side of the steps. He didn't need to do this, he told himself, he didn't need to see R; to know him; to love him, to be happy; and he felt the panic fade, his body believing the lie, even as his mind worked to pretend to.

Two minutes later, Dorian pushed the fronds aside, unimpressed.

"He loved you once."

Enjolras sighed and absently pressed a hand to rub at his chest, "I loved your mother, once."

Dorian crossed his arms, with all the intemperance of Enjolras dealing with his own parents at that age. Sometimes, he found himself surprised as to how little of his mother Dorian favoured.

"No, you didn't. You talk like I'm someone who doesn't know you, let alone one who lives with you. You made a decision at 17 and you never gave up on it, even if you convinced everyone else, even Mother, that you did."

Enjolras was glad for the cover provided by the giant plant, there was no dignified way of explaining to anyone gathered why he had sought refuge or why his son was required to give him a talking to. Dorian was obstinate in front if him, and Enjolras knew that look well. R used to try and wrangle, kiss, and tease his way out of it. Without thinking, Enjolras glanced up at the curve of the stairs as though he could pierce through the stone to the other man.

He looked back at his son, passionate and unyielding before him.

"Then why did he leave?"

Dorian stepped out of hiding and back into view of the ballroom, "Only he can answer that, if you'd ever managed to pull yourself together enough to ask."

His son whirled gracefully towards the stairs, – and if Enjolras was left feeling slightly proud of the results of his lineage, he kept it to himself – stopping at the bottom: struck. Enjolras snickered uncharitably at his son's expense; he had known that experience intimately.

Dorian looked back at him and Enjolras crept out of hiding far enough to see around the corner; He was coming down the stairs, as graceful as any professional dancer. He stopped part way, eyes catching on Dorian, brow puckered in thought.

Dorian didn't even need his acknowledgement, with one look at the man above him; from his green jacket, to his captivating eyes and riotous curls, there was something that complimented Enjolras.

Dorian had wondered, when he had first read those letters, – he had read them many times since, puzzling over why they suddenly stopped and his father's had been returned unopened till there were no new letters for years – what sort man could capture his father's attention? And then how could this R claim it for the length of his life?

Dorian quickly understood.

Regardless of the man's confusion over Dorian, he offered the lad a warm smile, mischief and challenge lingering in the corners. The beauty of this man and, like his father, the provocative challenge of him called Dorian to action.

Enjolras crept further out of hiding to catch his son's arm as he began to ascend in a hurry, but the boy brushed him off and continued towards the dark haired man, who was likewise descending to meet him.

Enjolras choked on his own breath at seeing the other man, and turned around to recover himself. He could still hear them, and he could not bring him self to walk away.

"Monsieur, it is very nice to meet you!" Dorian exclaimed, charming the man – who must be R – instantly with his manner.

"I am sorry, my young friend; you look very familiar, but I do not believe we have met," his answer matching Dorian's use of English but his French accent was evident. Dorian's eyes widened - the relations between England and France had never been particularly cordial, and it was hard to find a Frenchman in London not treated with hostility, open or otherwise.

R might've been the only one; gentlemen rested hands on his arms or shoulders as they passed him; ladies curtsied, fluttered their fans, or nodded with hidden smiles. He was open and easy with his grace and affection, returning all the attention he received with a genuine charm; captivating in the same capacity, though in a different arena entirely, as his father.

"No, we have not had the pleasure," Dorian agreed and cast a sly look over his shoulder at the blonde head resolutely turned away from them. "But I do believe you know my father," Dorian continued, beckoning R to follow, "He is very anxious to speak with you."

 Dorian led the dark haired man in green across the floor, over to the tall blonde dressed in maroon, and bit back a smug smile as R blanched and looked somewhat betrayed. Enjolras turned to face them, impeccable and aloof, like he hadn't had a fight with his cuff links, shoes, and hair tie in the minutes before they left.

 R seemed to stop breathing.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, in a manner that suggested R wasn't the only one affected by the other's appearance.

Grantaire took a single, shuddering breath; and Enjolras bowed, offering a hand with a flourish, suddenly regaining confidence now that they were once again face-to-face. He smiled.

"May I have this dance?"

 

*

 

There was a long pause, or one that felt longer than it should.

Then, Grantaire's hand clasped his, and they shifted seamlessly into the centre of the ballroom with the other partners whirling round. Everything in Enjolras' focus narrowed to the feel of the other man's waist shifting underneath his palm.

"You have one dance to explain why you have conspired with your lovely son to abduct me in such a fashion," Grantaire said, sounding at once amused; though the pull of his mouth indicated he was less than impressed with Enjolras' conversational methods.

One dance; he had no idea where to start, and only a certain number of revolutions around the ballroom to figure it out. Should he begin 5 years ago when they last saw each other, or 17 years ago?

Grantaire seemed to be staring resolutely at his collar and the tight flex of his jaw told Enjolras he wasn't going to have a preference beyond not discussing it at all.

"You could have refused," he started, a tiny bit petulantly.

Grantaire shook his head, curls springing all over the place, and it was just a little bit fond. It warmed Enjolras; maybe they could do this after all.

Charging ahead, high on the sudden rush of hope diffusing in his blood, he leaned in. His arm slid around Grantaire's back; his breath feathering over the other's ear, so no one else could hear; their bodies almost indecently close. "I wish you had never gotten out of bed, I wish I had never let you get to the door," he said lowly.

Grantaire jolted in shock and his eyes flickered away from Enjolras' collarbone, exposed because he never could tie a cravat and apparently neither could his son. Their eyes locked, and on the next turn, Grantaire accidentally stepped on his foot - or at least if the man wasn't qualified to be a danseur, it would've been.

"Dance, don't talk," the dark haired man said mildly, a glimmer of satisfaction crossing his face at Enjolras' stumble.

"You gave me one dance, I will not waste it on simply dancing."

Grantaire made a derisive sound and rolled his eyes as he turned under Enjolras' arm and back. Another reel around the room and time was starting to slip away into meaninglessness.

"R," Enjolras tried.

"I said don't," Grantaire shot back. People were switching partners, but Enjolras pulled Grantaire in tight. Grantaire's inadvertent exhale whispered over Enjolras' neck.

"R, please -"

"What did I fucking say?"

"Will you just goddamn listen to me?"

Grantaire missed a beat, his mouth parted in protest; before he recovered and snapped it shut so fast Enjolras heard his teeth click. He glanced around, but the music was too loud to be heard over. When he met Enjolras' eyes, all trace of warmth was gone.

"You didn't think it'd be so easy."

"No, but I thought you'd at least do me the courtesy of hearing me," Enjolras snapped back.

"All those letters unopened and you think I have any interest in what you have to say."

The band stopped playing, and people fell away from each other. Chatter rose in the room, and Grantaire let go of Enjolras and turned away.

"One dance, E. What will you do now?"

It was rhetorical; he went to walk away, to merge back into the crush, and Enjolras was sure he'd never to be so lucky as to catch him again. He latched onto his sleeve.

"I _still_ love you; if we cannot be lovers and we cannot be friends, let me speak my mind and leave in peace," he breathed in Grantaire's ear, "Courtyard. Three minutes."

A shiver raced down Grantaire's spine at the commanding tone. The grip on his wrist dropped away; he straightened, fixed his collar, and put on a smile. Enjolras was long gone behind him.

 

*

 

The courtyard was lit with candles, the paths into the vast gardens flickering underfoot. Enjolras stepped surely through them, towards the fountain wreathed in light. It had been a party just like this when he'd met Grantaire; the man, then a boy, finishing his schooling in London and originally set to return to France thereafter.  

Enjolras breathed in the fresh, slightly perfumed air. Cowardice had never been a part of Enjolras' life, but part of him wondered if it might be better to leave now and never have to face the truth that Grantaire might not join him.

He dangled his fingers in the water, the sound of music filtering through the double doors that spilled light put onto the patio. Enjolras absentmindedly hummed along. No, he would stay. Leaving never fixed anything.

Boots clicked on the concrete behind him and he half-turned to see Grantaire frozen on the path. He was staring, his eyes very round. He blinked and seemed to pull himself inwards, his posture straightening and locking tight.

"I will be missed if I do not return soon," Grantaire informed Enjolras' general direction, a little stiffly.

"You are already missed out here," Enjolras returned wryly, with a twitch of a smile.

All of the act went out of Grantaire's posture and he loosened, but his chin was high in defiance. The way Enjolras' remembered.

"Why can you not let this be?" The dark haired man demanded.

Enjolras pulled his fingers from the water, flicking them away from himself. Water droplets sprayed into the air. He sank down on the rim of the fountain, elbows balanced on his knees.

"I cannot stop thinking about you. I had almost managed, and then Dorian found our letters -"

"You mean your letters."

"I mean _our_ letters."

Grantaire swallowed audibly and came a step closer, suddenly vulnerable, "I did… I did not know you still had them." There was a catch in his voice, but whether it was disbelief or something much worse Enjolras couldn’t tell.

"Receiving your letter used to be the best thing about my week; apart from seeing you, holding you, all the things we did together."

"I did not know you could feel that sort of sentiment," R replied bitterly.

Enjolras recoiled. The look of bewilderment in Grantaire's eyes at his reaction suggested he had no idea at all the effect he had on the other man.

Gathering himself, Enjolras cleared his throat and said, "I have clearly done you wrong; unawares I assure you -"

Grantaire broke in with a snort but Enjolras glared him down.

"But she is gone now, my marriage no longer an issue. You can come back; Dorian would love to know you."

Grantaire stilled, his expression tumultuous. And then he whipped around to face the doors, seemingly ready to march away; back into the gathering. But he turned back to Enjolras; his eyes caught on the blonde figure, they were glassy with unshed tears. He thought better of it.

"You think I left because you got married; worse, you think she made me go."

Enjolras didn't need to say anything to convey his thoughts; Grantaire had always understood, as he did now.

The dark haired man's breath rushed out of him. "I tell you, Enjolras, it is not so." 

"Then why'd you go?"

The question was torn out of Enjolras' mouth, rooted out from his very soul; it came out bloody and wet. Grantaire's heart wrenched at the sound of it.

"I was too wild for the life you were living. God, you had a son, a wife, and I - I was drinking at every tavern until you came to find me, I was wandering and waking in gutters miles away from where my last memory started. I was too young to take any care should you have let me meet Dorian, and too stupid to realise why."

Grantaire meet Enjolras' gaze and his hand came up, without thought, to graze the blonde's cheek and alight on his neck.

"I thought it was best that I not damage your life, so I removed myself from it; and once gone, I abhorred any reminder. It hurts too much to look at you."

Fingers skimmed along R's, pulling till them down by their nearly touching knees. Enjolras laced their hands together. His other hand reached up to cup Grantaire's jaw.

"You have such a talent for words, but that is, without doubt, the stupidest thing you've ever said," Enjolras murmured, swaying towards the other man.

"You make me stupid," Grantaire replied, a hint of hesitation in the turn of his lips.

Enjolras' thumb caressed his skin, and his breath fanned across his lips, "You make me crazy."

Enjolras' mouth touched the corner of R's, and Grantaire turned into it, sealing their lips together. They kissed slowly, drawing back a few inches and cautiously pressing back together. Grantaire's hand worked its way into Enjolras' golden curls, as Enjolras' hand tightened at his waist. The blonde pulled him closer, almost onto his lap. Enjolras lapped at Grantaire's mouth, seizing the chance to deepen the kiss.

There was a loud rash of coughing from a few feet in front of them and Grantaire sprang away, the circle of Enjolras' arms not letting him go very far.

Dorian beamed beatifically at them, "I do hope I'm not interrupting, but it is the last dance and it occurred to me that I would remiss not to get the chance to take a turn with Monsieur Grantaire."

He offered a hand courteously, a devilish twinkle in his matching blue eyes. "Father, if you wouldn’t mind?"

Enjolras took his time relinquishing R from his grip, "One dance."

Grantaire laughed, as they made their way out of the glittering courtyard, "You both have this incurable habit of using social niceties to ambush people."

He paused, just before they entered into the crowd, "But I suppose you certainly know how to get results," and with a wink at the elder blonde, took Dorian's hand just as the band was striking up.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at le-farfadet-danse and the-most-marvellous-youth.


End file.
